


Leftovers

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set nine years after the end of the series.</p><p><i>"I remember that part," said Doyle, savouring his last mouthful of smoked salmon. "What I still don't know is how I ended up face down over the sofa, with your prick up my arse."</i></p><p><i>"It made you forget your toothache, didn't it?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Leftovers

Finally back at his flat, Doyle closed the front door by the simple expedient of leaning against it. He remained there, eyes closed, letting the quiet and warmth and smells of home seep into him a little at a time.

It had been his unenviable task to drive down to Bristol to tell Mrs Stevens that her only child was dead. Until he had seen the photographs proudly displayed in her living-room he had not known what Karen had looked like.

He dragged open his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, dropped his car keys on the side table and looked up to see Bodie at the other end of the hall. With his navy towelling-robe unfastened, a night's worth of stubble, and his hair tufting up, he was a less than heroic figure as he tucked his Browning into the pocket of his dressing-gown, making the fabric sag under its weight.

Doyle could feel the locked muscles of his face begin to relax. "Hello, Twinkle-toes."

"That's no way to greet the less able-bodied," chided Bodie. "No point me asking how it went."

"None. I hung on until her best friend could get down from the Lake District. What's this I hear about you working?"

"Don't start," said Bodie mildly. "Debriefings and paperwork only. I even had a minion getting my tea. I swear."

"Someone should. You're the colour of putty under the stubble and I notice you haven't tried to move while I'm watching you."

"My knee's a bit sore," Bodie conceded. "I don't know why. I even took taxis to headquarters and back."

"So it's nothing to do with you leaping out of bed just now? I should have rung first. Stupid to think I wouldn't wake you."

Bodie waved that aside, his assessing gaze on the man in front of him. "Have you eaten in living memory?"

Doyle thought about it. "I can't remember. It doesn't matter. 'M not hungry. I'll be fine after some sleep. Aaron's holding the fort. He'll call, if need be."

"I'll run you a bath. You'll sleep better for it."

Doyle's frown lingered as he watched Bodie retrieve his second crutch before heading for the bathroom. He was a dab hand with them now, with only a couple of weeks until his broken ankle was out of plaster, but the torn ligaments in his knee were taking longer to heal due to the cast - and his insistence on doing too much too soon.

Though it had to be admitted, injuries were starting to take that little bit longer to get over.

Older than some of the people on the 'B' squad, Doyle was still in the peak of physical condition but he had to work harder to stay that way. Without making a song and dance about it, a few years ago he had cut back on the drink, made time to exercise every day, and had kept an eye on what he ate. It had been a while before he realised Bodie was doing the same thing.

One day, some day soon, they were going to have to talk about what they did now the streets were no longer a realistic option.

Cowley retired at the end of March.

While the word 'deputy' had never been used, the hefty rise in pay and accompanying level of responsibility had taken place several years ago. Doyle's time was divided between the streets and a desk and he and Bodie had both been initiating and running ops for years. They were even known in Whitehall.

Doyle had lost none of his ambition and his priorities were changing but he was not convinced the change was for the better. Nearly sixteen years on the 'A' squad had left him with few illusions and a wealth of experience. Squad gossip saw him as a natural successor to Cowley, with Bodie guarding his back, the same as always. Ambition hissed 'Yesss', but he knew more about the corridors of power from the other side of the desk now; he was not sure he wanted to spend the next twenty years making the kind of decisions which had left Cowley drinking more than was good for anyone.

The point was probably moot. Times were changing. When Cowley retired there might not even be a place for CI5 in this new world. It seemed to Doyle that they spent more time stepping on the toes of the police, MI5, M16 and various other, unnamed, branches of the security services, resulting in duplication of work at best and total cock-ups like the Weston debacle at worst. The services should be complimentary, not competing. And more accountable. Unlike the police, CI5 had never had to justify every shot fired. Maybe if they had...

Doyle pushed himself away from the support of the front door and ambled down the hall, shrugging off his jacket as he tried to work out when he had last slept. It must have been some time Christmas Day. The steam drifting through the bathroom doorway smelt of something sharp and lemony. He tried to concentrate on that rather than Mrs Stevens, or the various other ops still running, with all their attendant risks. Harder to order others into the fray than to take the risks but not as hard as it had been at the beginning.

And that worried him more than anything.

"Your bath, sir." Bodie propped a crutch against the wall to set out clean towels. "I trust everything meets with your satisfaction?"

Doyle stared at him, seeing not the lines around his mouth and eyes, or the few extra pounds but the powerful shoulders and thighs, the steadfast refusal to let him wallow, the support, the mischief, the _love_... And the strain behind the smile. He should have noticed that before. Might have done if he hadn't been so busy studying his own reflection for signs of the reactionary he felt he was turning into.

"Ray?"

Doyle ignored the question and slid an arm around Bodie's waist, careful to avoid jarring his knee. "You silly sod," he muttered gruffly, before he tucked his face into Bodie's neck, soaking up the warm, breathing reality of him. Without being aware of it, he tightened his grip.

After all his years of risking life and limb in the danger zones, Bodie had nearly got himself killed saving an OAP from a driver too drunk to notice the elderly man in the middle of a well-lit zebra crossing.

Doyle had been holding Karen's grief-stricken mother, more worried about staying awake than her agony, when it had occurred to him that if Bodie had been a split second slower he could have been in her shoes.

"What've I done now?" asked Bodie, caressing the small of Doyle's back. "Never mind, tell me later. Though if you're going to fall asleep, do it in the bath rather than on me, eh?"

"OK." More or less vertical, Doyle rubbed his face. "I had to stop for a bit after I nearly dozed off at the wheel. Drove with all the windows open after that."

He began to discard clothing, treating his well-cut charcoal grey suit as if it was his rattiest pair of jeans. He owned six suits now, even if he didn't wear them as often as Cowley thought he should - although it took more than a suit to disguise his honed edge and too-knowing eyes. The years of increasing authority had taught him to school his expression and keep his emotions in check.

Finally naked, Doyle tossed his second sock in the direction of the laundry basket, stepped into the bath and eased down into the blissfully hot water. He leant his head back against a folded towel and closed his eyes with a soft sigh, the water lapping around his upper chest.

Home. Bodie. Same thing really, he mused, his drowsy satisfaction mixed with gratitude.

 

 

Doyle blinked awake to find Bodie smiling at him from where he was perched on the edge of the bath. "I've washed all the bits I could reach from here. You're turning into a prune. There's scrambled eggs and smoked salmon before you catch up on some sleep. Out you come."

As Doyle stepped from the bath, sloshing water everywhere with his usual largesse, Bodie automatically assessed his physical condition, familiar with the patterning of old scars. At least there had not been any new ones for a while, or none that showed. Ray's hair was half-grey now, the close-cropped beard he had grown a few years ago silver-flashed. The bags under his eyes were turning into little suitcases and he had put on several pounds but some days he only had to turn his head for Bodie to feel hollow with lust. Of course, there were the other days, when Ray turned his head and Bodie had to resist the temptation to knock him into next week but that was par for the course.

"What?" asked Doyle. One towel fastened low on his hips, another around his shoulders, he was languidly towel-drying his wet hair. He wore it shorter these days, but not short enough to subdue the curls.

"I was just thinking how much I fancied you."

Doyle gave one of those slow, warm smiles that seemed to stroke its way around Bodie's prick like a silken ribbon tightening its hold. "Yeah? Me, too."

"Isn't that called vanity?" wondered Bodie.

Doyle tossed one of the towels over his head. "If you weren't on crutches... I'm keeping a list."

"Not a surprise," Bodie assured him. "Do you know what day it is?"

"Is this one of those trick questions?"

"With you this sleepy? What would be the point?"

"It's Thursday," said Doyle with certainty. "It must be about seven a. m. by now. Give or take."

"I meant what date?"

Doyle squinted, having reached the level of fatigue where remembering his own name was demanding. "They caught Riordan at the Kempton Park races on Boxing Day and today's the day after."

Bodie gave the trim backside a light slap. "Our anniversary, as it happens. On this day, nine years ago, you and I became lovers."

"As opposed to blokes who just shagged each other senseless whenever the fancy took them?" Doyle shrugged into the towelling robe Bodie handed him.

"Well, there is that. If you want to nit-pick. But as we could never remember exactly when it started, we agreed on the twenty seventh, nine years ago."

"You did, you mean."

"I didn't hear you objecting."

Doyle remembered to walk slowly down the hall so Bodie would not be tempted to walk too fast and jar his knee. "That's because I'm putty in your hands."

"I must've missed that part. Though we don't do so badly."

"No," agreed Doyle, "we don't. You're not working up to casting me off like a worn-out shoe, are you?"

Bodie looked shocked. "Before I've had my Christmas presents?"

"Optimist." Doyle sat at the kitchen table, fishing the pips out of the orange juice Bodie had squeezed for him. He tried not to notice Bodie's mouth compress when his knee gave him gyp as he saw to breakfast. Stoicism gave way to violent swearing when Bodie burnt his fingers on the plates he was keeping warm under the grill.

"Teach you not to use the oven glove," said Doyle, unmoved. The time to worry was when Bodie went quiet.

"A bit of sympathy wouldn't go amiss, you know." Bodie slid a plate in front of him. "Eat. As I was saying, our anniversary's definitely today. The Rahad op. finished on the seventeenth December. Clearing up and odds and sods saw us to Christmas Eve, which would have been our anniversary but for the fact Anson and Stigwell pulled a fast one, which meant we worked through Christmas. We were off on the twenty seventh, but you spent most of it trying to find a dentist who was working over the holidays because your new filling had fallen out and you had the kind of toothache that makes men start wars. You looked bloody pathetic by the time you got back, all eyes, drooping curls and drooling out of the side of your mouth."

"I remember that part," said Doyle, savouring his last mouthful of smoked salmon. "What I still don't know is how I ended up face down over the sofa, with your prick up my arse."

"It made you forget your toothache, didn't it?"

Doyle gave a genuine, if tired, grin. "There is that. The Bodie cure-all. It was a noble tradition you started for celebrating our anniversary. You're sure it's still only morning?"

"Not even eight o'clock yet. Go to bed. I'd like you awake for the finale. I hope you don't have any objections to being rogered by a bloke with a crutch."

 

 

While Doyle slept, Bodie got ready and set off to deal with the mundane necessities of life. After the bone-numbing frosts and clammy fogs of recent weeks it felt positively balmy out, the listless drizzle and grey sky not enough to dampen his spirts. Because he could not drive yet, he hired a taxi to take him to and from the laundrette, bank and supermarket, marvelling at all those trawling the High Street for Sales bargains. His knee disowning him by the time he got home, he made the mistake of settling beside Doyle for ten minutes.

 

Bodie awoke to the smell of bacon cooking but knew he couldn't be in heaven because his knee hurt like hell. There was, however, the faint possibility that Ray had decided to spoil him.

While leaping out of bed was not an option, Bodie could be quite nippy given sufficient inducement.

His happiness was complete when he discovered not only bacon, but Doyle wearing the dressing- gown he had bought him last year. The rich burgundy gave his sallow skin the illusion of a tan even in mid-winter and the silk glided intriguingly over the muscles of his back, the hollow of his flanks and the curve of his arse.

Bodie stroked the Doyle-warmed silk, before nuzzling the side of his neck. "I thought you'd sleep the day through."

"Me too but I needed to take a leak. I must've drunk too much coffee last night, trying to stay awake. Then Cowley rang. We're off until the seventh January."

"What, both of us? He's obviously had a rush of blood to the head."

"Don't you believe it. The miserly old bugger's converted your sick-leave into annual leave, that's all." Doyle hooked out perfectly crisped rashers to drain, then added brown sauce to the bread he had already cut.

Brown bread, Bodie noted, with bits of bird seed in it, but a man had to make a few sacrifices. Anyway, he had bought it himself, so he couldn't complain. He helped himself the moment Doyle turned away to collect the plates.

"Gannet," said Doyle. He sat opposite Bodie and made inroads on his own sandwich. "I was starving when I woke up. What sleep I had must have been good, I'm feeling semi-human already. How d'you feel about going back to St. Ives? That cottage is free - I rang them. We could drive down tomorrow."

"Perfect. Not that I'll be wind-surfing with this." Bodie gave his leg a look of disgust.

Doyle grimaced. "I never thought. We don't have to go."

"Don't be daft. I was just mourning a wasted opportunity, not saying I'll be bored. You'll take your painting gear?"

"I might as well," said Doyle, his tone ultra casual. "Never thought I'd want to pick up a paint brush again, let alone try water colours. I mean...water colours. I'm turning into a cliché."

"That's middle-age for you," said Bodie, straight-faced.

Rather than the reaction he had hoped for, Doyle was staring into the middle distance. His elbow propped on the table, his chin resting on one hand, he was thumbing the side of his beard.

"I _am_ too old for the streets. One of these days, some time soon, we need to talk about what we're going to do next. We don't even have to do the same thing as each other but we need to admit what we want to do."

"I know," acknowledged Bodie, humour dropping away. He had promised himself that he would support Ray, he just hoped he would be able to keep his end of the bargain. "What do you have in mind?"

"That's just it, I don't. I can't see CI5 surviving Cowley. I'm not even convinced it should."

Bodie's lack of reaction suggested he wasn't alone in that thought.

"That doesn't mean you can't write your own ticket," said Bodie bracingly.

"You too."

Bodie shrugged that aside.

"You don't want the authority?" pursued Doyle, his would-be casual tone negated by the intent look in his eyes.

"I dunno." Bodie pulled a face. "See, this is why we don't have many of these conversations. We're bloody useless at them. You know I'll support you, whatever you want to do. I know you'll do the same for me."

"Which would be all the more impressive but for the fact neither of us knows what else we want to do. Come to that, we don't have the qualifications for any other kind of work. We wouldn't get hired to see kids across the road."

"It's the uniform, isn't it?"

"What?" Doyle began to think he was less awake than he had assumed.

"You have a thing for blokes in uniform."

"I've never seen you wear one. Except that time you dressed up as a P.C. Though you in a tux pushes every button I've got. Maybe I could sell you off as a male model." Doyle didn't give Bodie time to preen. "You know, to one of those catalogues that sell longjohns and incontinence wear."

Bodie was too preoccupied to rise to the bait. "You've been trained up to succeed Cowley, even if the squad doesn't stay the same. Are you seriously thinking of giving up that chance?"

Doyle concentrated on the path of his forefinger as he traced breadcrumbs around his plate. "I think I am. No, I am. I won't pretend the idea wasn't...seductive. But the job eats up our lives until there's nothing else left."

"It won't squeeze me out of yours," said Bodie with flat-voiced conviction. "If that's all that's bothering you?"

Doyle looked up. "No, it isn't. Not really, because I'm not sure if what will be left will be worth having. I feel as if I'm losing myself, bit by bit." He made a sound of impatience and gave an irritable gesture with one hand. "Listen to me, wanking on."

Bodie gave a slow smile. "My cue to leap to your defence?"

Doyle relaxed back on his chair and stretched out his legs, propping a bare foot under the thigh of Bodie's good leg and wriggling his toes. "You've been doing that for a good few years now."

"The novelty hasn't worn off," Bodie assured him. "What do you really want, Ray?"

Now he had taken the first difficult step, Doyle didn't even have to think about it. "I want us to have more than the crumbs that are left over from running CI5. There are so many things we want to do. Not just being together, or travelling the world, but learning stuff... How to sail - all the water sports come to that. Going climbing, riding, flying... You want to learn to be a drummer. I quite fancy playing more than air guitar. I want to learn how to play Flamenco. And I can't remember how many years it's been since we've had time to help out at that boys' club in Limehouse - or something similar wherever we settle down. I want us to have time for the Sunday papers after buttered toast and sex. Concerts. The pictures. Lunch in a country pub. We've been lucky to have had this long on the streets and come out of it in one piece but whether we like it or not, that can't last. Things _will_ change - and not for the better as far as we're concerned. Can you face twenty plus years behind a desk?"

Bodie could not sustain that all-seeing gaze.

"That's what I thought." Doyle leant across the table to take hold of his forearm, shaking it slightly. "You stupid, stubborn, _loyal_... This has never been about you - about what you want, has it?"

Bodie met his eyes then. "I didn't want you giving up everything you've worked for."

"When I joined this mob I wanted to make a difference. And sometimes we've done some good. Other times, for better or worse, we've maintained the status quo. But recently there have been times... I know mistakes are inevitable but can you remember the last time you heard Cowley admit to making one? That'll be us, soon. It's getting too easy to make the difficult decisions. Isn't it?" Doyle tightened his grip.

For a few seconds Bodie forgot how to breathe, before he relaxed, grimaced and nodded. "I sometimes forget how well you know me. I've had enough. I want out, while our honour's still intact." Having finally inched the cat out of the bag, he sat back with a sigh of relief.

Doyle nodded, his eyes never leaving Bodie. There weren't many people he looked up to - not really. Bodie was one of the few and had been for a very long time. No one talked about things like integrity, duty, loyalty, or honour these days. Bodie would cut off his arm with a penknife before he tried. But then he didn't need to because he just got on with it and lived them...

"With honour intact," agreed Doyle, before he smiled. "That's settled then. We'll leave when Cowley goes. It'll take that long for our notice to kick in."

"Yeah." While he said nothing more, Bodie put back his head and gave a lengthy, bone-cracking stretch, his arms above his head, his spread fingers reaching for the sky. He looked liked a cliché for an advertisement proclaiming _Freedom!_ When he slumped, he flexed his neck, then proved he was close enough to the refrigerator to be able to liberate two bottles of beer without leaving his chair.

"Don't start with the lecture. One bottle won't hurt me, even with the pills," he anticipated. "I want to celebrate."

"I wish I'd realised you felt like this sooner," said Doyle with regret.

"I don't see how you could. I didn't realise myself because there was never the time. So I just put my head down and got on with it. I've had too much time to think since the accident." Bodie knocked the cap off his bottle on the edge of the table and saluted Doyle.

Doyle looked at the shine that was back in those impossibly blue eyes and touched the neck of his bottle to the one Bodie held. "To thinking."

 

"...got a bit of money put by. I forgot about the investments I made back at the end of the Sixties with my pay-off from the mercs. Was a nice surprise. All legal," Bodie anticipated, when Doyle opened his mouth. "I bought two houses in Kensington that had been converted into flats. A management company's been looking after them but the owner's retiring and wrote to me. Suggested I think about selling. You won't believe what the places are worth. D'you reckon we could make a living out of doing what we enjoy most?"

"What, fucking?" said Doyle, giddy with relief now the hardest decision had been made.

"I've always fancied playing with one of those video cameras," said Bodie, side-tracked. "We'll have to be quick though, before prime of life turns to middle-aged spread."

"Yeah, yeah. It'll be a while yet." Doyle opened the packet of mince pies Bodie had bought and tucked in with gusto. He could not remember the last time he had been this hungry. "There are all sorts of things we could do to earn a crust. Though we'll need to check if we need any official qualifications for some of them. I can put defusing a nuclear bomb on my CV."

"More like holding one steady while sweating cobs," said Bodie, pricking that pretension. "What sort of things are you thinking of?"

"Variety. Out-doors. Fun. Maybe something along the lines of a centre running various courses, tracking, orienteering, walking, survival courses - for the security services as well as people who fancy something different for a holiday break. At different levels, of course. We'll need quite a bit of capital but I've got some put by too. We'll have to have a think. Not least, where to settle down. It couldn't hurt to look around while we're in Cornwall. Dartmoor. Exmoor, even. Or maybe Scotland. Or Wales. Might get more for less outside the West Country. Whatever we do, with luck it'll give us the winter off. A chance to do whatever we want. I don't need much to live on and be happy. And for all your talk, neither do you."

Bodie sat back, whistling soundlessly as he thought about what they were proposing. It wouldn't be as good as the streets but it wasn't a desk. Or watching what the job was doing to Ray... Or feeling as if he was suffocating. And it would be fun.

"So we're after some land, simple accommodation, with stables nearby. What about target and clay pigeon shooting? We'd need more than the pair of us, whatever we do. We can probably recruit from our old mob for some of it," said Bodie, trying to contain his enthusiasm.

Doyle sat back in his chair, listening more to Bodie make plans than the plans themselves, hearing the new lightness in his voice, which work had been pressing out of him. Bodie needed the illusion of freedom. And variety, stimulation... So did he, come to that. This wouldn't be as good as the streets but then nothing could be and they would lose them sooner or later anyway. It was a damn sight better than going out feet first. Good to have a choice. To reclaim their lives.

"I'll get some paper," Doyle said. "We'd best starting making notes. There's a lot to think about."

"It's not just me, is it?" Bodie checked. "You really do want this?"

Doyle's gaze never wavered. "Yes, I do," he said without hestitation, because if it wasn't the whole truth, it was close enough. "Oy, that last mince pie is mine! Oh, bugger it. Have half then..."

 

By early evening they were surrounded by pieces of paper and brimming with ideas.

"I'm getting peckish again," Bodie announced. "One advantage of working Christmas - we avoided turkey, pudding and sprouts."

"Particularly sprouts."

"I'll see to dinner,"

"What's the catch?" Doyle groaned a second later. "You're going to inflict it on me again, aren't you?"

"It's tradition. Nutritious, too."

"And cheap. My Nan used to cook it for us every time I went round to see her. A very frugal woman was my Nan. She could make leftovers last for days. Or maybe it just felt like it."

"Can tell which side of the family you took after. We always have bubble and squeak on our anniversary. You like it the way I make it."

"I dunno how you work that out, it's different every year."

"Exactly! That's the beauty of it."

"Hers was always the same, over-cooked cabbage and lumpy mash, fried in chip fat. Was disgusting. Yours isn't bad," Doyle conceded. "Especially since you started adding the apple, nutmeg, garlic and fried onions."

"Mine's fantastic, and you know it. Probably because we don't use leftovers," Bodie admitted. "I got some of that good champagne to drink with it. And marzipan fruit."

"I can't stand them. And you shouldn't drink any more with those pain-killers. Which reminds me, take two." Doyle stood over Bodie until he did, knowing how much they were needed by the fact Bodie didn't argue. Much.

"Satisfied?" asked Bodie sulkily.

Doyle kissed his upturned face. "If you're feeling that perky, you can start cooking."

"I could do with taking the weight off my feet." Bodie grimaced a few seconds later. "Bugger. I walked into that one."

"More like hopped. Blame it on the pills," comforted Doyle. "No, sit tight and finish your beer. I'll make it this year. You can entertain me while I slave over a hot stove."

"How about a moving rendition of ‘It Was Christmas Day in the Workhouse’?"

"That must be a cheerful ditty," said Doyle, grinning

"It's a monologue. An attack on conditions in workhouses actually."

Doyle turned around. "How _do_ you know this stuff?"

"I like reading social history. Then I get sidetracked. Remind me to pack some of the unread pile of books for St. Ives. What would you like for Christmas?"

"I've already got it," said Doyle, without an ounce of sentiment.

Bodie went a bit pink anyway, before he recovered in typical fashion. "Well, if you're hoping that will get you out of buying me any presents, think again, Scrooge."

"Socks, slippers, handkerchiefs, tie, aftershave..."

Bodie grinned. "I remember making my dad a pipe rack in woodwork classes and giving it to him for Christmas, even though the poor sod didn't smoke. So, what have you got me?"

"There might be the odd present or three stashed away where you wouldn't find them."

Bodie didn't disillusion him. "I'll fetch them, if you'll tell me where they are."

On his second trip Bodie came back with parcels addressed to Doyle. "These are just the small things. What do you really want?"

"You in your tux and me on my knees sucking you off. Well, almost. Then we stick with noble tradition and you have your wicked way with me. Though not necessarily over the back of the sofa. The fabric on this one itches like mad."

"That's all you want?"

"You don't have a clue, do you?" said Doyle indulgently. "All these years and you're still bloody well gormless. What I'd really like is you as my toy boy."

"You realise that means you'd have to pay me for sex?"

"Bang goes my savings. I knew there was a catch to you obeying my every whim."

"Because that would be such a novelty," mocked Bodie affectionately.

Doyle hooked down a recipe book, took an envelope from between its pages and let the envelope flutter over to Bodie. "Well, open it," he said, when Bodie just stared at it.

"Tell me what it is first. You're looking worryingly pleased with yourself." Bodie's eyes widened. "It isn't a weekend on a Health Farm, is it?"

"If only I'd thought of it," mourned Doyle. "Afraid not. You've always said you want to learn to fly. It's lessons. Enough to get you the hours you need to take the test." He had the rare satisfaction of depriving Bodie of the breath for speech.

"Thought you'd like it," Doyle said, satisfied, if considerably poorer. "And it should fit in nicely with our plans."

"If it wasn't for this bloody leg I could start the lessons while we're on leave," grumbled Bodie.

"You'll be up there, terrifying the birds, soon enough."

"Why would - ? Oh, you mean real birds. Here, a few things to keep you going."

There was an inflatable Superman - "For when I'm away", Bodie explained. A year's subscription to Doyle's favourite bike magazine and a book on Michelangelo heavy enough to give Doyle a workout every time he lifted it.

"I'm not sure about keeping a bloke who wears his knickers over his tights," mused Doyle, examining from every angle the yet-to-be-inflated superhero.

"So it's not the tights themselves that put you off?"

"You're insane," Doyle told him affectionately. "Don't eat those crisps. Not only will you poil your appetite but there'll be none left for when we watch ‘Where Eagles Dare’ for the tenth time. Reminds me, you owe me five quid. I said it would be on again."

"By rights it should've been ‘The Great Escape’. Would've been appropriate, too," said Bodie happily, as he picked up a pencil and began to list a few more ideas, in between instructing Doyle on the best way to make bubble and squeak.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Completed 26TH December 2007


End file.
